Prologue
1184 Words
A prisoner sat on his bunk within the cramp confines of his cell, staring at the wall. His dark hair had grown long and disheveled in his time here, now shot through with streaks of gray. He looked emaciated, flabs of skin pointing to a once easier lifestyle. He did nothing but sit silent and motionless, staring at the wall, waiting.
Today his wait was at an end.
Two guards approached, one looked close to retirement with a tinge of white hair surrounding his bald pate, with thick jowls and a round belly. The other was much younger, just into his adult years, with a strong jawed handsome face, bright blue eyes, and thick blonde hair.
The younger handsome one took a ring of keys from his belt as his partner took out a pair of handcuffs, he glanced over his shoulder at the out of shape middle aged man behind him, his nervousness evident in his expression.
“You sure you can handle this? I know he's skinny but I've seen some strong skinny guys”
The veteran guard chuckled at his rookie partner. “Don't worry about me. The Quiet man ain't no trouble, never has been.”
“Quiet man?”
“Cuz he don't talk, hasn't the whole time. They say he hasn't said a word since the cops found him standing over his wife with her throat tore out.”
Memories came unbidden to the prisoners mind, the man once known as Charles Madison, as he let himself be passively lead to his death. The sound of the crunch of gravel on the driveway as he came home from work, Fear gripping his heart as he looked at the beautiful house his lovely wife Rose had made into a home, only to see the door hanging open. The scent of blood assaulting his nostrils as he rushed inside, the red stains all over her beautiful dress. The warmth leaving her body as he held her to him.
More memories, these less distinct, the police interviews, the trial, he hardly paid attention. They didn't matter, nothing did anymore. Staring at these walls, feeling the rage turn to despair and then acceptance as he realized that he would never know who murdered his world, or why. The longing he felt, wishing desperately to see her again, to hear her laugh. He'd gladly even listen to her gossip or complain about the man across the street, the “one with the dead eyes”, something he'd always found troublesome and exhausting.
The two guards talked as they led the condemned man by his chains, they talked of sports, of work, of wives and children. They talked of the kind of life that was stolen from him. He envied them, their happy, carefree lives, and he silently prayed they would never know the pain he felt. No man should have to.
The handsome rookie opened the door and they walked into an open room with a large glass wall on one end with seats beyond the glass. The room itself was empty save for a desk and a wooden chair with leather straps at the arms and legs and a dome-shaped metallic device at the top, an electric chair.
Charles gazed upon it, a feeling of relief washing over him as he saw the chair, soon his pain would be over. The two guards sat him down and strapped him into the chair before backing up near the door. As they moved away the widower looked up at the glass, into the faces that came to watch him die. And when he did he spotted a pair of familiar, dead eyes.
Charles' heart raced as he stared at the neighbor that Rose had been afraid of, questions searing through his mind.
How was he here? He had some kind of government job, lawyer? Maybe he had some kind of connections.
Why was he here? Only one answer made sense.
Suddenly all the relief and peace Charles had felt was gone, he was filled with rage, he thought only of vengeance. He tried to scream, but after so much silence his voice only came out as a hoarse whisper. “It was him! The murderer is in that-” But the switch was flipped and his words were cut off as the voltage surged through his body, and everything went black.
He found himself floating, his body feeling strangely ethereal, like it was both solid and not at the same time. He hung in a dark void, and he was not alone. Though he saw nothing the dead man felt a presence, powerful and furious and kind all at once.
“Your heart cries for vengeance, departed soul. I can give you the power and opportunity to destroy the one who tore your life asunder. But it comes at a price.” He did not hear the words as much as he felt them, like they reverberated against his soul instead of his ears.
“What price?”
“Servitude. You will act as my agent, one of my spirits of vengeance. You will exist as neither fully ethereal nor fully immaterial, caught between life and death. You will give to the departed the same thing you will be taking for yourself, vengeance, and protect the boundary between the dead and the living.”
“For how long?”
“Until I release you”
“I accept”
Charles found himself outside of the prison, standing in the parking lot. He saw people leaving, but no one seemed to see him. When he looked down at himself he saw he was dressed in a long leather coat, like the kind the cowboys wore in the movies, leather gloves and military style boots with a shirt and slacks. As he turned away from himself he looked towards the cars and almost instantly he spotted his quarry. He slid up behind him, silent as a cat, and just as his enemy was about to open his car door, Charles reached into his old neighbors chest. He wrapped his hand around the heart and without even thinking about it, willed his hand solid, squeezing at the heart.
The man with the dead eyes fell almost instantly, the rest of him now matching his strange gaze. Charles stared at the body but his head turned sharply as he heard an anguished cry.
“No! Not now! Not you!” There stood the same man Charles had just slain, but not quite solid, you could see through him, he was a ghost.
Before Charles could even reply a hole appeared beneath the Neighbor and fire sprang from it, followed by hands. The twisted, gnarled things gripped Charles' enemy, pulling him screaming downward.
The Spirit of Vengeance looked at his hands, he thought he should feel victorious, relieved. But all he felt was a muted satisfaction, like someone had turned the volume down on his emotions. He was no longer a man, but he wasn't fully a ghost either. He was an instrument, a weapon, an Empty Shell.
- Writer
